


Between Your Thighs

by ifinkufreaky



Series: Ivar and the Maidens [4]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Biting, F/M, Hate Sex, Name-Calling, Verbal Humiliation, spitting, this is what happens when I let Ivar get too nice in my longfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 07:09:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10183694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifinkufreaky/pseuds/ifinkufreaky
Summary: You can't stand Ivar Ragnarsson. But now that you're alone with him, even though he's teasing you mercilessly, and starting to touch you inappropriately, you just can't seem to walk away from him...Don't expect any romance here. Ivar's got a face made for hate sex and that's exactly what you're getting. Standard disclaimer: this piece is set in whatever time period on the show that you want, as long as you're imagining Ivar at the right age of consent for your state/country.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I dedicate this story to anyone that ever secretly wanted to fuck that guy in school that was so mean to everyone.

Glossary: (so that they can say ridiculous porno things to each other and we can pretend it’s a little classier)

 _pú heimsk tík_ " (you dumb bitch)

 _druslan_ (slut)

 _þú ert ríða andlit_ (you're a fuck face)

 _svín_ (pig)

 _þræll var betri en þú_ (the slave was better than you)

Thanks for the help and suggestions on these goes to @ivarthebonelessx on tumblr, she and I chose to use Icelandic because it seems very close to Old Norse and also because I am in love with "druslan" such a pretty ugly word...

 

*****

 

You might be the most forgetful person in Kattegat. The sun is setting as you finish your hike back up to the training grounds; you were halfway through your dinner when you realized you had actually left your bow up here today. If you leave it out overnight, still strung and getting damp, it might get ruined. So here you are, cursing yourself under your breath, belly only half-full as you enter the now-deserted area where the warriors practice.

You’re more than halfway across the clearing, headed to the shelter where you’re pretty sure you left your cursed bow, when you realize you are not the only one up here. Prince Ivar himself is sitting on a stump in front of the line of targets, fiddling with a throwing axe. Great. The youngest son of Ragnar always seemed to find a way to get directly under your skin. He teases everyone, but he always seems to be particularly mean to you.

You think about turning back, collecting your bow later. Ivar hasn’t seen you; right now he’s raising his arm to throw his axe toward a board he has already filled with them. Alas, your foot breaks a stick and he turns sharply to look your way, his axe flying wide and thudding into the dirt.

“Nice one,” you scoff at him, rushing to speak the first cutting words. It was always a contest with you and Ivar.

The prince’s eyes travel to the stray axe embedded in the ground, not even halfway to its target. He sniffs loudly and looks back at you. “How dare you sneak up on your prince, _pú heimsk tík._ ”

You roll your eyes at him. “A real warrior would be more aware of his surroundings.”

Ivar twists his lips in a sneer. You force yourself not to think about how handsome he looks when he does that. “Yes, a real warrior is always aware of things. Things like where her weapons are.” He turns and looks pointedly at the wooden shelter at the edge of the field, where your bow is propped absently against one of the support posts. “Forgot it again, did we? And you even left it strung.” He clucks his tongue at you like you are a careless child. “That’s a good way to ruin your toys.” A nasty grin starts spreading over his face.

“Not all of us have slaves to pick up after us, Boneless,” you spit, covering your embarrassment as you start stomping toward the lean-to. “It must be nice to be a Mama’s boy like you, always having someone to wipe your nose and coddle you.” Then you look decisively away from Ivar; you just want to grab your bow and get out of here as quickly as you can.

He only laughs; nothing you say ever seems to shake him. “Actually I am glad you are here, y/n, I was just starting to get bored.” He’s got another throwing axe in his hands now, flipping it casually in the air. You try not to focus on his face for more than a glance; that hooded smile he gets when you lock eyes for too long makes something clench low in your belly.

Your path is taking you directly between the prince and his target. When you realize your error it’s too late to change the course of your feet without looking scared, so you keep on going with your head held high.

You knew he was going to do it. You hear the whiz of the axe in the air and manage to not react at all as it sails only a few feet from your head before sinking into the board at the edge of the clearing. You resist the temptation to check how close he got to the center of the target; you won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Hey, _heimsk tík_ ,” You hear Ivar call; you’ve passed him now. You should ignore it but you just hate when he calls you that, you whip your head back around to look at him with murder in your eyes. “Fetch my axes for me,” he requests, crossing his arms and settling into his seat with an arrogant little bob of his head. “And while you’re up there, you can admire the precision with which I’ve landed them. I know you’ve never achieved anything so accurate, yourself. You might learn something.”

“Get them yourself, spoiled brat, I am no slave.”

Ivar tilts his head to the side, eyes sparkling at you. “You are really going to make me haul my crippled ass all the way down there? Just to remind me that you are a free woman.” He makes a tsking sound with his tongue. “How childish. Besides, you would do well to remember that I am in fact your prince.”

You whirl and take a few steps closer to him. “What, so you are commanding me now?” Your irritation with him is reaching some kind of breaking point and you’re no longer remembering your plan to just rush out of there.

“If that’s how you like to think of it,” he replies, brows jumping in amusement as he sits smugly on his stump.

You step up to him, your warrior’s body bristling with challenge as you loom over him. “Say ‘please,’” you demand, with your own mocking smile.

Ivar frowns, his lower lip protruding slightly. Then his arm whips out and he smacks you hard on the ass. “I said fetch them, woman!”

You rub the spot he struck you on reflex, ignoring the sudden heat that flashes between your legs after the impact. “You did _not_ just do that to me.”

Ivar flashes a toothy grin in your face. “Move along quickly now, or you’ll get a harder one.”

You shift your weight toward him instead, refusing to back down but unable to think of a good line to spit back at him.

As he promised, Ivar’s hand cracks on your ass again, but this time he keeps it there, uses it to tug you a little closer. “What, do you like it when I do that, _druslan_?” he asks, voice full of amusement.

Your own hand flies on its own, slapping him soundly across the face. “I don’t care if you’re a prince, don’t speak to me that way. I am not afraid to put you in your place.”

Ivar leaves his head tilted where the impact spun his neck, his eyes closed like he’s actually savoring the feeling of what you just did. “Mmm, as long as you’re about to tell me that my place is in between your thighs,” he says, turning his brilliant blue eyes back on you. They are full of dark thoughts as he peers up from under his brows. You find yourself frozen, trying to comprehend the meaning of his bold words. Ivar wants to…? He slides both his hands over your hipbones, which are peeking out in an exposed strip of skin above your pants.

You can’t stop yourself from shuddering under his attention. “Take your hands off of me,” you snarl, even as you realize all you have to do is step away from him and somehow you just aren’t doing that.

“Don’t pretend, y/n, I see how you react to me.” He leans closer, mouth curling like he’s achieving some kind of victory. “You want me.”

“I shuddered because your touch disgusts me.” The words fall easily enough from your tongue, but you can taste the lie on them.

“Oh, so if I slid my hand under your shirt right now you’d stop me?”

“Of course I would,” you say, though now you are panting.

You stare each other down as one of Ivar’s thumbs slowly creeps along the skin of your belly. Why aren’t you moving? Why don’t you strike him again? You are entirely captivated by the slide of his hand, fingers dancing under the hem of your shirt. His palm is rough as it runs up your belly.

The longer you let this go on, the cockier Ivar is going to get. His fingers curl around your side, then his thumb is brushing the bottom of your breast. His jaw drops and his bottom lip curls in over his teeth in that shit-eating little grin he gets. “You don’t want me to stop,” he accuses. “Come here.” He tugs you closer with his other hand, the one still resting on your hip.

Your treacherous body leans into him just a little. Ivar chuckles, a prideful, masculine noise that you instantly hate even as it increases the sweet ache starting to throb between your legs.

He smirks as his hand starts to close over your breast. “I wonder if these little titties feel any bigger than they look.”

You’re shouting “Asshole!” and knocking Ivar off his stump before you even have time to think about what you’re doing. You follow him down to the ground, taking a swing at his face that he manages to block. The distraction lets you get your knees astride him and sit down hard on his stomach. He’s fending off your blows and laughing your name like this is all some big joke. “I was only kidding!” he shouts until you calm down, no longer ready to kill him but glaring down at him. His mouth curls up again and he adds “…I like them small.”

This time your open hand gets through his defense, striking him across the cheek again. This was definitely harder than the last one; Ivar sucks on the inside of his lip as he looks up at you. You wonder if you drew blood. You noticed his eyes are dilated, pools of black with just a rim of blue now. His perfect full lips are twisting ever so slightly into a smile.

“So?” he says, looking up at you expectantly.

You realize you were just staring at him as he lay there pinned between your knees. “So, what?” you ask fiercely.

“So are you going to let me touch them?”

This time Ivar catches both your wrists when your fists start to flail toward him.

“Easy, easy!” he chuckles at you. His eyes are gleaming. “Come on, you have already got me at your mercy, aren’t you going to do anything besides hit me?”

“I don’t know,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him theatrically, “you seem to like it.” Two could play at this game.

Ivar just sucks the inside of his lip again. Definitely bleeding. “Yeah,” he shrugs, not denying it, refusing to be ashamed, even. “What kind of Viking would I be if I didn’t like a little struggle before I take a woman?” He contracts his abs underneath you in two sharp bursts, bouncing you suggestively in the air.

The feel of those muscles moving under your thighs is the last straw on your resistance. You do want Ivar Ragnarsson, gods help you. You’d probably been wanting him for months, and if he weren’t such an asshole all the time maybe you would have been together by now.

His gaze is steady, eyes going serious as he sees the change of weather in yours. When you suddenly lean down over him, he stiffens his arms reflexively, still holding your wrists away from him. He ends up supporting most of your body weight that way as your lips crash into his, your chest hovering only inches above him.

Ivar tastes like metal, and sweet summer berries. His tongue presses between your lips almost immediately; no way either of you are going to let this get sappy. You growl into his mouth and nip at the trespasser, then force your own tongue past his teeth. Ivar releases your arms and drops you into his chest, his own fingers raking up your back and burying themselves in your hair as you two make out with abandon.

Once you decided to blow on this spark, there was no turning back. Your arousal has become a bonfire as you eat at each others’ mouths. This feels crazy but it’s also making the perfect kind of sense, your hate for each other flipping into lust so easily. Ivar is tugging on the hair at the back of your head, trying to control the kiss, but you’re relishing the blunt pain he’s causing and you are completely undeterred in your mission to smother him. You let your knees slide down and straighten, grinding your hips against Ivar’s in a suddenly desperate need.

Ivar lets go of your hair in favor of tearing at your shirt. He’s working the hem up toward your shoulders when you lift away from him, catch his eye in caution. “Are we really going to do this out here?”

You’re both struggling to catch your breaths. Ivar raises his brows, looks around the empty field theatrically. The sun has already disappeared behind the treeline; it is very unlikely someone would come up here and stumble upon you. “I do not see anyone around, y/n,” he says, returning his eyes to you. “Anyway, I thought a peasant like you would feel right at home rolling around in the dirt.”

“Don’t get all high and mighty on me, Ivar, your father started life as a peasant too.”

“Some of us have greater destinies,” Ivar says philosophically, then pulls your shirt up roughly over your head, uses your moment of flailing confusion to flip you over onto your back. “I think right now _your_ destiny is only to scream and wail underneath me.” He tugs the shirt up high enough to free your head; the first thing you see is his wicked smile as he looms over you. Your arms are still caught in the twisted fabric, allowing Ivar to hold them down above your head using only one hand.

He uses the other to trace his fingers over your face first, light and spidery. You thrust your chin out and thrash, but he’s got you pinned. In the back of your mind you know that you’re not really using all of your strength to fight this, but it feels good to make the symbolic attempt. Ivar seems to like it too. Though you still kind of wish you could wipe that smirk off his face, especially when he looks down at your bared chest, heaving fruitlessly underneath him.

His fingertips slide over one breast, then the other, taking his time. When he rolls one of your nipples between his thumb and the side of his grasping hand, you’re no longer sure if your hips are fighting him or begging for more. You watch Ivar’s eyes, lidded with lust as he stares down at all your exposed flesh.

Still resting most of his weight on your wrists, Ivar bends over to swirl his tongue over your nipple. His hand closes over your other breast, gathering it up into his palm and squeezing. Your breasts are on the small side and you can’t stop thinking about how Ivar had insulted them. “Oh,” you say, face burning, “ _now_ they’re good enough for you.”

Ivar turns his dazzling eyes up to you for a moment. “I told you, I like them small.” He closes his hand in an almost painful squeeze. “Bite-sized,” he quips, then opens his jaw over the other, sucking as much of your flesh into his mouth as he can before starting to bring his teeth together.

“Ivar!” you scream in warning, not sure how far he’s going to take this.

The devious boy chuckles with his teeth pressed into your flesh, stopping just short of hurting you. You sigh in relief, only to gasp when you feel a sharp sting as he changes his mind and bites down anyway. The pain lasts only a second, then Ivar raises his head and releases you with a dark grin. You follow his gaze to see him admiring a reddening ring of indents he has left, a wide circle around your nipple.

“Don’t you dare do that again!” you shout, realizing too late he might just take that as a challenge.

Ivar shifts his weight over you, digging his hips into yours. Something hard that’s definitely not his hipbone grinds between your legs. “You do not appear to be in a position to issue any demands, y/n,” he says condescendingly. He brushes his fingers over your wounded flesh, then scoops up the other breast, frowning slightly. “They don’t match anymore,” he says to himself and starts to drop his head toward the unblemished nipple.

Panic sparks through you for a moment, and this time you use your full strength to roll Ivar off you. As soon as he hits the ground you sit up and get your feet under you.

“I am serious, Ivar,” you say as you clutch your rumpled shirt to your chest, getting ready to stand. “Don't do that again.”

He grabs your arm before you rise. “I can play nice,” he says earnestly, though the way his lips twist is already giving the lie to his words. “Don’t go.” You start to rise up anyway.

“Here,” Ivar says hurriedly, rolling onto his back at your knees. “I will let you pay me back.”

His eyes gleam in anticipation as you look down at him, considering. He whips his tunic off in a quick motion and lays back again, his whole magnificent torso laid out for you in the last rays of the setting sun. “Whatever you want to do to me. Whatever you feel is fitting, and then you'll let me play with you again.” He relaxes his body and looks up at you expectantly.

“You think I want you?” you try and scoff, but your mouth is going dry the longer you look at his cut abs and sculpted chest. “Here’s what I want to do to you.” You rake your nails up his stomach, hard and cruel. Ivar twists up defensively and then stops himself, exhales forcibly and drops his arms to the ground. You shift your weight over him, no longer caring about your naked chest, dropping the shirt to the ground so you can claw both your hands down the smooth terrain of his pecs. You watch in fascination as the white lines you drew turn red.

You glance at Ivar’s face; his lips are parted and his brow is slightly creased. You aren’t exactly sure if he’s enjoying this or just holding himself back so you’ll give him a chance to do something worse to you. Either way your lust is blazing again as your fingers come to both his nipples. You let the ferocious joy you’re feeling show in your face as you roll them between your fingers, making him squirm just a little. Then you pinch down.

Ivar’s eyelids flutter. “Do that again,” he moans.

Your mouth twists. “Oh, did you like that? Then no, I don’t feel like it anymore.” You start to turn away but Ivar reaches up and grasps your chin, forcing you look at him. Before you have time to react, his other hand comes up and slaps you on the cheek. Lightly, the way one would reprimand a child. More humiliating than painful.

“Then your time is up,” he says, face back to sneering, “that’s all you got of being in charge.” Now he’s pushing himself up and pulling you into his lap, laying a crushing kiss over your mouth and growling all the while. You find yourself reciprocating eagerly, too turned on to push him away. You try to get your leg around to straddle him again, but Ivar is looking for more control than that and presses your bare back down into the hard-packed earth.

The feel of your naked chests sliding together is heavenly as Ivar pulls his body to cover yours. His hand is soon struggling with the lacing holding your pants on, and while you’re trying to help him you’re also refusing to part your hips from his. It just feels too good to grind your clit against his surprising hardness. It seems that the rumors of his impotence have been exaggerated.

Ivar’s hand stings against your cheek again. “Stop that, woman. Help me get these pants off you so I can give you what’s coming to you.”

You moan, ready to accept that his constant humiliations are only turning you on more. You tilt your hips and allow him to push your waistband down until there’s enough room for his greedy fingers to slide between your folds. Ivar smirks in your face. “I knew you would be soaking wet for me here.” He rubs his fingers up and down without entering, watching your face closely as he tests the terrain. “Tell me, where do you best like a man to touch you? Inside… or out?” he asks, demonstrating your choices with clever movements of his fingers. “Soft… or hard?”

You throw your head back and groan when Ivar gives an example of that last option, plunging two fingers into you and then curling them to press on your g-spot. He chuckles and keeps that one up, your body giving him all the answer he needs.

The rumors about Ivar’s sexual prowess are definitely false.

Ivar bends his face close to yours as he keeps up his steady invasion. “Tell me now, y/n,” he breathes in your ear like a lover. “How long have you been wanting me to do this to you? Do you stay up at night in your bed, dreaming of me?”

Though your body is rocking against his hand absolutely shamelessly, you find you still need to deny him with your words. “Never,” you say as coldly as you can between gasps. “I’ve never thought of you like this, Boneless. _þú ert ríða andlit_.”

“Is that so?” he growls into your ear, vibrations loud enough to tickle and irritate your eardrum.

“Yes,” you continue to sass him impudently, seeing as it’s only making him fuck you harder with his hand, “what we are doing right now changes nothing. I still hate you.”

Ivar slips his fingers from you suddenly. “Then I don’t see why I am bothering to pleasure you like this.” He starts to unlace his own pants, ignoring your panting protest. “I will take what I want out of your flesh, _druslan,_ and when I am done with you, I’ll let you get back to your business. Once you’re able to walk again, of course.” He gives you his best commanding sneer. “Take off your boots and your pants. I am done being patient.”

“I am sorry,” you reply sardonically, sitting up on your knees, “you must have me confused with that slave girl. I hear you couldn’t satisfy her, either.”

A flash goes through his face; you worry that you’ve gone too far. Then he collects himself. “Shut up,” Ivar says dismissively, and all further thoughts fly from your mind when he pulls out his straining erection. “Or do you need to get your face down here and see if those rumors were true.”

It’s pale, perfect, and larger than you expected. You almost swoon at the thought of Ivar putting that thing inside you. You lean toward him eagerly.

Ivar stops you with a hand and a shake of his head. “Naked first, y/n.”

You can barely take your eyes off him as you unlace your boots, kick them off and slip your ankles out of your bunched pants. The ground isn’t entirely smooth but it still holds the day’s warmth so you don’t mind the feel of it against your skin too terribly. Ivar has been watching you struggle with your clothing, one hand idly stroking his length as he looks you over. “Come here,” he says softly, in the same voice he uses when he’s issuing threats. You draw forward on your hands and knees. “Kiss it,  _druslan_ ,” he commands, pointing his tip out toward you.

There is an outraged rushing in your ears but it doesn’t stop your body from following his order; you feel yourself bending as your gaze turns seductive, locking eyes with him as your lips descend toward his cock. Ivar sits back on his elbow and flashes you an arrogant smile as he watches, which irritates you again.

Before your mouth reaches his tip, you purse your lips and spit on him instead.

You’re retreating immediately, having expected the storm clouds now gathering in his eyes. You aren’t fast enough, however. Ivar grabs you by the hair and forces your cheek to the ground. He drags his hip toward your face, until his prick is so close it’s all you can see. “This cock is going to teach you a lesson now, _heimsk tík_.” He tips it at the base with a quick move of his hand, slapping your cheek with it.

Your face burns in a blush as you open your mouth reflexively, thinking he wants to put it in there. Ivar chuckles darkly. “No, I can’t trust a worthless _tík_ like you not to change your mind and bite it.” His hips pull back, then his face is looming close to yours, eyes brimming with a playful sort of contempt. You watch his jaw move as he sucks his cheeks, and he spits right on your face. Most of it lands at the corner of your mouth, and Ivar’s jaw goes slack as he watches it slide in between your lips. It feels strange, but not as disgusting as you expected. Then he’s pushing you down flat on your stomach. You feel his weight settling over your thighs and hips. “No more foreplay now, y/n. Time to pay up.”

You hear Ivar spit again and a moment later you feel wet fingers pushing your thighs apart; at least he has the courtesy to lubricate the path before him. His slick fingers slide through your folds and make sure your entrance is ready for him.

“I want you squealing like a pig,” Ivar says, pressing the head of his cock against you.

“Better do something to make me, then,” you say, tossing your head to look back at him.

Ivar’s eyes are gleaming in triumph and thick, smug pleasure as he begins to sink into you. Not only has it been a while since you felt a man, you have also never done it in this position before. His blunt head is immediately pressing into that sensitive spot inside you, creating a chorus of pleasure that rocks through your body and makes you weak. You drop your head into your hands on the ground, unable to do anything but simply feel the way Ivar is filling you.

You hold your breath, savoring every second as Ivar starts bucking his hips, sliding in and out. The angle of your coupling drives his head over and over against your favorite spot, the one he had found with his curling fingers. Colors are exploding behind your eyes, and you’re barely aware of anything besides these sensations. Your silence is not what he asked for, however. “Come on, _svín,”_ he grunts between thrusts. “Squeal.”

He gathers up your hair, pulling your head back until he can see your face. You let a few moans escape your throat, but you’ve never been one to make too much noise even when you’re enjoying yourself. You screw your eyes shut and rock into his delicious rhythm, hoping he’ll give up on this request soon and stop distracting you.

Ivar twists his hand in your hair, angling your face closer so you look at him again. “ _þræll var betri en þú_ ,” he says very seriously, his eyes burning pools of black. Then he drops your head to the ground again and adjusts his angle, pushing into you deeper and harder.

“Would you stop talking,” you say without looking up, relaxing your body theatrically. “I am trying to pretend you are someone else.”

Ivar mutters something under his breath and twists his hips savagely. Then he withdraws and flips you over, elbows landing on either side of your face so that he can loom over your body, his violent eyes all you can see. “No, y/n,” he growls. You think about making it hard for him to line himself back up, but you want his cock back inside as quickly as he does. As soon as Ivar slams back into you he grabs you by the neck, making sure he has your attention. His grip is not tight enough to stop your breath, just enough to remind you who is in control right now. “You look at who is fucking you. Better than you’ve ever been fucked in your life.”

“Keep telling yourself tha—“ you try to scoff, but Ivar shifts and hits you just right. Your eyes roll back and you can’t help but give him the satisfaction of seeing your pleasure.

“That’s right,” the infernal boy continues, dragging back and forth across that sweet spot, “just close your eyes and focus on how it feels to have my cock pounding into you.” You lock your ankles behind his hips, starting to lose your ability to think as Ivar’s heavy pressure send wave after wave of delicious tension through your body.

Then he slows, gives your cheek another lazy slap to get your attention. “I bet you’ll never call me Boneless again,” he says smugly.

Is that what all this was about? You feel the sudden urge to say something reassuring to him, but you quickly push that to the side, remind yourself you still hate this asshole. Even if he is currently blowing your mind. “I don’t know, Ivar,” you say, “I might need you to remind me like this again sometime. I am, as you know, very forgetful.”

Ivar rolls his neck with a smile that’s both frustrated and bemused. You just keep refusing to show any submission in your words to him. Only with the movements of your body. You rock your hips eagerly and he redoubles the effort of his thrusts, getting serious about his pleasure. Ivar is making low grunts but he has finally stopped speaking words to distract you. You hear the raw slap of skin on skin and odd little gasps that you realize are coming from your own throat.

Just as you think you might break, Ivar’s hand covers your face, presses it to one side. “I cannot bear to look at your face anymore, _pú heimsk tík,_ you’ll make me go soft.” He puts some of his weight on that hand, grinding your cheek into the dirt.

That last bit of humiliation is all you need to drive you right over the edge. You don’t hold yourself back as you come, arching your back, scrabbling your nails against his flesh, trying to escape him and consume him at the same time. Ivar continues to hold you down through all your shuddering aftershocks, then withdraws himself from you again, still huge and firm.

You sag against the ground in relief, but Ivar is not done with you. He’s holding himself up on one elbow at your side, his forehead propped against your shoulder and one hip resting against your open thigh. He is arched awkwardly like this because he’s holding his cock in his other hand, pointing it at your stomach and stroking it furiously. You watch in fascination, and from the angle of his face you can tell that he’s staring at himself too. After a moment you feel his whole body clench up as a ragged groan escapes his lips. His hand staggers and thick white streams jet from his tip to splash across your belly. You can’t decide if this is making you feel dirty or divine.

Ivar gives himself a few more strokes, making sure every last drop falls onto your skin. Then he rocks himself off of you and collapses with a contented sigh by your side.

You both stare up at the purple sky, twilight turning to night as you catch your breaths and savor the afterglow. You only jump a little when Ivar reaches over and starts idly smearing his seed around on you with his fingertips.

“Y/n, where do you sleep?” he asks, voice low and satisfied.

“Why?” you answer defensively. You’re still not sure what he’s after, how much you should trust him or how far to let him in to your life.

“Well you are my woman now. I need to know where to find you when I want to do this again.”


End file.
